


Faded

by GubraithianFire



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adoption, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Best Friends, Bisexual John, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Jim Moriarty Dies, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John Watson is bad at feelings, Light Angst, M/M, Mary Morstan is Sebastian Moran, Parentlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Undercover Missions, and so doesnt most of hlv, s4 doesnt exist, s4 non compliant, the baby doesnt exist, very very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 14:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18896290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GubraithianFire/pseuds/GubraithianFire
Summary: Sherlock is dying. He is bleeding out on Magnussen’s office floor, shot by… by Mary.At first he tries his best to think of a way out of this, to contain the shock, the best position to fall to. But then, he grows tired. Tired of thinking, tired to cling to a life he doesn’t even enjoy anyway. A life not worth living, not after the wedding...John.John.“John Watson is definitely in danger.”His heart now beating fast and loud, Sherlock starts climbing the stairs of his Mind Palace, the stairs that lead from the Cellar of Fear, to the Garden of Hope.Slowly, he opens his eyes.---hello and welcome back to another episode of "Sherlock wakes up in the past" trope, just, with a twist ;)





	Faded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hammasluu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hammasluu/gifts).



> hello hello!! writing sherlock and john feels like home, it's incredible. I hate s4 with all my heart, and I couldn't find any inspiration to keep writing after it. 
> 
> but my fiancée (always her, smh,) sometimes still reads johnlock and can't find fics that appeal to her (no heavy angst, no smut, no established relationship, no teenlock/other au's...) so I take it upon me to write something for her. 
> 
> this is the very common "sherlock travels back in time" trope, but as I said, there's a little twist. 
> 
> hope you'll enjoy!!
> 
> \--- 
> 
>  
> 
> _julia ily sm you're my heart <3_

Sherlock is dying. He is bleeding out on Magnussen’s office floor, shot by… by Mary.

At first he tries his best to think of a way out of this, to contain the shock, the best position to fall to. But then, he grows tired. Tired of thinking, tired to cling to a life he doesn’t even enjoy anyway. A life not worth living, not after the wedding...

John.

_John._

“John Watson is definitely in danger.”

His heart now beating fast and loud, Sherlock starts climbing the stairs of his Mind Palace, the stairs that lead from the Cellar of Fear, to the Garden of Hope.

Slowly, he opens his eyes.

It’s dark, and he is lying on a bed.

 _Hospital bed_ , his mind supplies.

But, weirdly enough, he doesn’t feel any needles poking at his arms, nor intubation tubes down his throat, no pain in his chest.

He touches his mouth. There’s nothing.

Frowning, Sherlock sits up, and, wonder of wonders, he manages to without any effort.

When his eyes adjust to the darkness, he immediately reaches to the side and turns the light on.

He’s in his room. In Baker Street.

Tentatively, he touches his chest. Incredulous at the sheer lack of pain, he grabs his tshirt by the collar and pulls it down. There’s no wound.

“Sherlock?”

That’s John’s voice. But something’s off.

He sounds panicked.

Sherlock stumbles out of bed as fast as he can.

John might be in danger.

He runs to the living room. John is there, staring and scrubbing at his hands like there should be something on them, and when he hears Sherlock’s footsteps approaching, he lifts his head. His eyes are red and puffy, and they widen comically at Sherlock’s sight.

“Sherlock,” John’s chest is ripped by a sob, so, so sad and desperate. He runs into Sherlock’s arms, rubbing his wet face into his pyjamas top.

“I thought I had lost you… again,” Sherlock can hear it in his voice, that the man can hardly breathe.

Sherlock is not used to John hugging him. Like, at all. He had hugged Sherlock at his wedding, but Sherlock was such a bundle of nerves back then that he hadn’t reciprocated. So he doesn’t count that one.

Which means, John has never actually hugged him, not even when Sherlock had come back from the dead, and expected a tearful reunion, John had just… straight up attacked him.

So this is new.

Yet, as Sherlock wraps his arms around John and squeezes him to himself, he cannot help but think this is _natural_. The most natural position they have ever been in. Sherlock’s chin fits like a puzzle piece onto John’s hair, and so do their chests, flushed together, their arms and hips.

It all fits so perfectly, Sherlock starts to wonder if there is a God who made it all possible.

But, soon enough - and much sooner than Sherlock would have liked, John puts his hands on Sherlock’s pectorals and pushes away, lifting his head to stare into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock… you were… bleeding _so_ much, and Mary… she was all dressed in black and had a gun and you were _dying_ Sherlock, my hands were drenched in your blood, I… how are we in Baker Street?”

So it hadn’t all been a dream. Puzzled, Sherlock joins his hands and places his index fingers under his chin.

“Most curious,” He just says, because even though he is freaking out, he doesn’t want to freak _John_ out.

“Sherlock, Sherlock please tell me I didn’t dream it all, or that I’m not dreaming this. It feels, _too real_.”

Sherlock shakes his head, _no, you didn’t dream it all._

“So, what the fuck happened? Were we teleported? A collective hallucination? Did we travel in time?”

Sherlock, his heart beating fast in his chest, runs over to his calendar and gasps loudly.

What in the world…?

“John,” Sherlock calls him over, trying not to let his panic ooze from his words.

John shakingly approaches Sherlock, and lets out a yelp and covers his mouth with his hand when he sees the date on the calendar.

_20 November 2011._

“Sherlock is this the day…”

“I jump.”

“Then why are we here and not at St. Barts?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, ruffling his hair, walking back and forth.

A plan starts to be put in motion.

“John, there’s a hitman set on you, or at least, there should be.”

“A _what_?!”

Sherlock realises then and there he has never told John why he had faked his death.

“There’s no time now, there are hitmen set on Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, too. They were bribed by Moriarty. Ordered to kill you if I don’t jump.”

Sherlock wears his Belstaff. Because this might be a dream, but in the slight chance he isn’t dreaming, he must act. And quickly.

“Call Mycroft, tell him about the hitmen, and stay in the house. I’m going to St. Barts.”

Sherlock is already opening the door, that John grabs his wrist.

“You… you can’t go. I cannot lose you. Not again.”

Sherlock scoffs. “You won’t _lose_ me, John, I already know Moriarty’s tricks and schemes, and I’m ready. I won’t jump, I won’t get tricked by him.”

John shakes his head.

“What if he attacks you? I’m coming with.” John runs to get his gun, he checks the safe is on, and then puts it in his jeans.

There’s such determination in John’s eyes, the flash on an ancient pain and fear and something _else_. Sherlock can do nothing else but roll his eyes and gesture for John to follow him.

As they run down the stairs, they notice that Mrs. Hudson has electricians over.

And Sherlock looks at them carefully, and notices one of the men is hiding a silencer and a weapon in his toolkit.

Sherlock gestures to John who understands immediately, and docks the man.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson exclaims, and the other workers stare in fear at the tiny man who had knocked out a man much taller than him in just a few seconds.

Sherlock opens the man’s toolkit and shows everyone the gun.

“Call Donovan, ask her to come here immediately, _without_ Lestrade, and ask her to arrest this man. He’s with Moriarty.”

“John, Sherlock, what in the world are you doing?”

“No time to explain Mrs. H.,” John quickly yells, and runs after Sherlock.

They hail a taxi, and give St. Barts’ address.  

“What’s your plan?”

Sherlock sighs, and starts explaining to John the reason why he had to jump and disappear, about the snipers and Moriarty’s huge network he had to dismantle, to clear his name and put John out of danger. About how it had been Mycroft who had come to put an end to his suffering after two years of tortures and fear and loneliness.

“I… I didn’t know any of this,” John whispers, a hand on his heart, like it’s hurting.

Suddenly, John’s eyes flash with anger. “Why have you never told me any of this?”

“Why would you have needed to know? You have Mary.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Biting on his tongue, realising he had said perhaps too much, Sherlock looks out of the window.

“Nothing.”

God, had the drive to St. Barts always been this long? No, it’s the traffic.

John inches closer.

“Sherlock, I don’t understand what is happening. I don’t know if we traveled in time, I don’t know if we are dreaming or hallucinating and why. But I do understand you’re the real Sherlock, and not s figment of my imagination. I know you for real.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches at hearing John utter those same words he had said the night they escaped from the police, right before the Moriarty showdown.

Sherlock keeps looking out the window, but then he feels John’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him lightly, gently asking him to turn to him. So Sherlock does, and they stare into each other’s eyes for endless seconds.

“Sherlock, what did you mean when you said that I have Mary?”

“John, I-”

Right then, the taxi stops, and Sherlock throws the car door open and flees.

He had almost told John.

Together, they run up St. Barts stairs, shooting a text to Lestrade, telling him a sniper is onto him in Scotland Yard.

On the roof, Moriarty’s waiting.

John gets his gun and points it at the madman.

“You brought your lapdog,” Moriarty’s smile is like a snake’s, “How cute. Could you tell him not to bark?”

Sherlock sneers, and John cocks his gun.

“I know of the hitmen. I know the code is a fake. I know of your network. You’re over.”

A flash of confusion flashes over Moriarty’s features, but it is quickly hidden.

“Well then, what do you plan to do?”

Sherlock breathes out, relieved. So it was just him and John who had traveled back in time, and Moriarty was a few steps back.

“I want you to turn yourself in, and watch me destroy your network, piece by piece.”

Moriarty sneers.

“That is never gonna happen,” He says, before taking his gun from his pocket and pointing it at his head.

“They’ll believe you, the fake genius and his dumb dog, killed me, poor Richard Brooke. I’ll leave it to Miss Moran to clean up the mess.”

Sherlock is confused.

He has hunted down every single one of Moriarty's men and women, and not once the name Moran had come up.

Who could it be? Who- Fuck!

“Mary…” Sherlock breathes, and John tenses up, never losing sight of Moriarty.

“Oh, so you know about her, too, though I cannot figure out how, for she has always been kept a secret. How do you know, Sherlock, sugar?”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” he simply replies.

John scoffs. “You can say that again,” he mumbles.

“I can’t let you have her,” Moriarty smiles viciously.

Then, it all happens quickly.

Moriarty points the gun at Sherlock, and shoots. John pushes Sherlock out of harm’s way, and the bullet hits his leg.

Moriarty is already running towards the fire escape, that Sherlock takes John’s gun from the floor and shoots at the back of the man’s head.

Then he kneels beside a whimpering John, checking that the bullet hasn’t hit his femoral artery. It hasn’t.

“Are you okay?” He asks, panicked.

“Cracking,” John croaks, before letting out a moan of distress.

“John, John what do I do,” Sherlock’s hands are full of John’s blood. It’s disconcerting. It’s scary. It’s a bloody _nightmare._

“Scarf… wrap, wrap scarf above wound, and call Mike!” John grits out.

Sherlock does as instructed, and he cannot stop mumbling _nonsense_ as he does. “John, I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault, you shouldn’t have been here, I’m so sorry, John I cannot live without you, please don’t fall asleep…”

“I love you, silly,” Are John’s last words before he faints, and Sherlock can only stare, dumbfounded, as Mike and other nurses come to the roof and bring John downstairs.

 

\--- Two hours later ---

 

When John comes to, he can hear Sherlock scream.

“You cannot arrest me now! I need to see John wake up, _then_ you can do whatever you want to me.”

“Sherlock, it’s the procedure,” Gregson sounds awfully tired.

Then, a commotion, a woman yelling, “Sir, you cannot get in there!” And John can see Sherlock barricading himself in his hospital room.

What a madman.

John chuckles, but that hurts his leg, and he hisses. Sherlock whips his head around, and upon seeing John is awake, he runs to him.

“JOHN!”

Sherlock falls to his side, and holds his hand.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Right as rain,” John grumbles.

Pain and regret shoot through Sherlock’s eyes. “I’m sorry you got wounded, how can I ever make it up to you?”

 _It was worth a wound, it was worth many wounds actually,_ John thought to himself, _to see the depth of loyalty and love that lie behind that cold mask of yours._

Sherlock’s mouth parts, his eyes fill with tears and John knows he has fucked up. He said all… that, outloud.

“Fuck,” He murmurs, resting his head back.

“John-”

“So, have we really traveled back in time?”

“John-”

“What about Mary? Was she really Moriarty’s second? Tsk.”

“John I-”

“I married a bloody psychopath,” John chuckles, “Though perhaps I never did marry her, this is giving me a headache.”

“John,” Sherlock says sternly, and only then John does turn to look at him.

His heart is beating fast in his chest, as he watched Sherlock struggle to find the words. Is he gonna reject him? After all, what he had said earlier awfully sounded like a confession of love.

“John, up… up on the roof, y-you said you loved me. DId you mean it?”

John is going to say, _Of course, as friends_ , but he is tired.

Tired of lying and pretending, and the Universe has given him a second chance after all, so why not grab it?

He thinks of his dull, married life with Mary, that month he had spent waiting for Sherlock to contact him, dreaming of him while in bed with his own wife.

He thinks of all the heart-wrenching _longing,_ of all the mourning and waiting and crushed hopes and knows he cannot pretend anymore. And if ( _when_ , his mind supplies)Sherlock rejects him, at least he won’t have any regrets. Also he’s seen how much Sherlock cares for him, at his wedding and now.

They will stay friends no matter what. He takes a big breath.

“I have always loved you, Sherlock. Always. SInce the day I met you and you cured my limp, that’s when I fell in love with you. And with every shared adventure, every little thing you did, I fell in love even more. But I was scared, scared you were just an emotionless machine after all - despite all the evidence pointing otherwise. Scared of ruining our friendship, which had saved me from a life of loneliness. I almost offed myself the night before I met you. But then you died, and Mary was.... easy, comfortable. I never loved her like I loved you, but I couldn’t risk a - what I thought was, happy, healthy relationship for you to reject me. So I stayed with her. And then she shot you and we went back two years and a half in time and I. I still love you like the first day. No, even more. You’re the best person I know.”

God, the tension John has accumulated in all those years, finally leaves his shoulders. It feels so _good_ , so _relieving_ , so _right_ , to tell the truth, finally.

“No… You… I heard you tell Irene you weren’t gay.”

John smiles bitterly, “I’m bisexual, though I’m not fond of labels. I have had men. In school and in the army - Sholto, remember? We almost eloped.”

“No… You… This cannot be…”

John feels rejection, which quickly turns to resentment, flash throughout his body.

“Well, I’m _sorry_ I fell in love with you.”

“No, no, John, please. I… I’m in love with you too. God knows your wedding was torture. I left early, didn’t you notice? Couldn’t bear seeing you and Mary dance. I have always loved you too.”

“Why did you never say anything?”

“I was scared, too. I didn’t want you to leave my side. Also, you were always so vocal about us not being a couple. I never disputed those assumptions, you might have noticed.”

“Christ… You mean… all this _charade_ could have been avoided if we had just been true to each other?”

“I guess,” Sherlock is shaking like a leaf, his muscles all tensed up, and John’s eyes are full of tears.

They are a bloody mess.

“I would kiss you right now, if my leg wasn’t screaming bloody murder.” John murmurs sheepishly, and Christ, he’s not a schoolboy anymore. Why is he blushing? It’s just Sherlock. His best friend.

Sherlock ducks his head until John can feel his warm breath on his lips, and then cocks his head, almost asking for permission.

John is tired of this maddening wait.

He grabs Sherlock’s nape and pulls him down till their mouths meet.

It feels so good, so right, John feels exhilarated. He starts smiling in the kiss, and he is grinning so openly it’s hard to keep his lips moving, but Sherlock is giggling too, so that’s fine.

Laughing and crying, teeth clicking and lips meeting on-and-off, they make their way into their first kiss.

Right then, someone bursts through the barricaded door, and clears their throat.

It’s Mycroft.

“I see this is a… a _thing_ now.”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock grumbles, lifting his head but lacing his fingers with John’s.

John is over the moon, out of himself with happiness.

“We are working on cleaning your mess, and clearing your name. You’ll have to dismantle Moriarty’s network, though, I know no other man more capable than you.”

John sees Sherlock shiver, probably remembering the horrors of his mission.

“Is there no one else you can ask?” He queries, and Mycroft looks at him like one would at a bug plastered on a car window.

“No.”

“Then I’m going with.”

“John-”

“I’m a war veteran, and I love you, and I’m not letting you out of my sight again. Never again.”

Sherlock must see the determination in John’s eyes, for he just nods and says, “Mycroft, he’s coming with me.”

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow, but then sighs, defeated.

“Fine, I’ll arrange another alias for John. Don’t mess this up.”

“We won’t.”

 

\--- Ten years later ---

 

“Daddy! Papa said breakfast’s ready, so you need to wake up,” A little girl’s voice says, and Sherlock turns on his side, grumbling.

“Daddy! Wake up!”

“Agnes, please,” Sherlock digs the ball of his palms into his eyes.

After a few minutes of Agnes bothering him, jumping on his back and kissing his cheek, Sherlock reluctantly gets up.

“Hey love,” John smiles from the kitchen, and Sherlock wants to grumble in response, but he can’t, he really cannot, and finds himself smiling despite his best judgement.

“Morning, John. And morning, Agnes,” He crouches to be at his five-year-old’s level, and she smiles.

“Happy birthday Daddy!” Agnes says, then turns to hug John’s waist.

“I love you both very much,” She says.

Sherlock looks over at John, and he knows they are both thinking the same thing.

_God knows what sent us back in time, but we couldn’t be more thankful._

Sometimes they both feel this is a dream.

But then they hold each other, or Agnes, and know that this is for real.

There is no other possible explanation for this feeling of _home_.

They are happy and in love and have dismantled Moriarty’s network together (Mary included), and now they have adopted a beautiful daughter and they have friends and everything is just… perfect.

They have been given, by some immovable, ineffable object in the Universe, a second chance.

They look over to Agnes, eating some pancakes, and smile.

This happiness is not artificial. It’s as real as the air they breathe.

John looks at Sherlock, “We are lucky,” He mouths.

“So lucky,” Sherlock murmurs back, over Agnes’s head.

They are finally living the lives they were supposed to live.

All that sorrow and grief, was the soil for the beautiful flower that is their life now. And they regret nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> aaand john traveled back in time too!! I never read a fic in which they _both_ travel back in time so I thought this twist might make things more interesting. 
> 
> leave a kudos if you enjoyed and pls do comment!! I love reading them <3 
> 
> sayonara!!
> 
> follow me on tumblr @clarimon (and if you like digimon, pls do send me an ask!!)


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